


The Grand Hotel

by Daffadowndilly



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: And yet, Daylighter Simon Lewis, Hurt Raphael, M/M, Raphael Santiago Has Feelings, Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago Fluff, Simon Plays Guitar, Simon Sings, Songfic, enjoy, everyone loves Simon Lewis, here we are, i know songfics are the trashiest form of fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12925908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daffadowndilly/pseuds/Daffadowndilly
Summary: Simon returns to the Dumort. Everyone has feelings.





	The Grand Hotel

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set (mostly) in the Shadowhunter's TV show universe, and technically occurs after the betrayal in episode 13 (?) but actually begins to diverge from canon when Simon arrives at the Dumort. Some of the “off-screen” action mentioned as being in the past in this fic comes from the books, and some from my own imaginings. Good luck sorting that out.  
> The changes to canon pre- break-up aren’t important plot-wise and probably not necessary for your understanding of the story, but those originating in my head are written in my [Simon at the Hotel bullet point thingy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12925752), mostly it just explains some background and gives significance to Simon's playing/singing.  
> Whether you chose to read the background or not, I hope you enjoy this post break-up Saphael.  
> (Btw, the song is [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vnh-IldZtX8).)

  


****

**They Come for Some Comfort**

  


_Somewhere below the Grand Hotel_

_There is a tunnel that leads down to hell_

 

That’s Simon’s voice. No one in this place could ever mistake that voice. Not singing, not speaking, not crying. If they heard it for the first time in a hundred years, or a hundred thousand, they would know it. The few short months that had past since it last filled these lifeless halls had certainly not begun to mar the memory of it.

 

There was a time, when first it became familiar, that the inhabitants of that once-silent building would have done nearly _anything_ to escape his voice. Now, they drift slowly from dark rooms and deep corners of the Dumort, pulled from the shadows towards its bright, seemingly magnetic sound.

 

_Take the dumbwaiter, the laundry chute_

_Then sneak through the hall past the boys shining boots_

 

Deep within the hotel, Stan finds himself floating out of his room, into the passageway. Blinking slowly as though still waking up, he sees the others filling the hall. It’s strange, surreal, to see so many people moving in harmony. They all mirror Stan’s gradual, almost involuntary movements and dreamy expression. Slow eyes hover over one another before turning upward, as though they could peer through the ceiling to see the source of the song many floors above.

 

_Turn left at the courtyard, through the old garden_

_Where all the bellhops smoke with the guards_

_And then you run to the old lake house_

_Down to the old lake house_

_Run to the old lake house where it begins_

 

Simon’s singing. He hasn’t sung in a long time. He hasn’t been home in a long time.

 

Home. Somehow, this moment is the first time he’s realized that the Dumort _is_ his home. As dark and strange and full of bloody, tear-stained secrets as it is, it’s his home.

 

He plays his guitar with ease, the rhythm and chords coming to him freely. The words are harder. He hears them again as he sings them, thinks about them like he’d never heard them before.

 

_Under the floorboards there's a deep well_

_That leads to a spring that sprung up in hell_

 

_Hell_. The word had entered his mind with new meaning after his death.

 

When he’d woken, lungs filling with earth and body aching with cold, as he’d clawed his way through six feet of suffocating sod, as the crushing feeling of being buried and unsure of the way upwards had choked him as effectively as the dirt filling his mouth and nose, the word had flickered briefly through his head, then was pushed aside by desperation.

 

When he’d emerged only for cold and panic to be replaced by hunger, burning hunger, the word was still there, in the back of his mind.

 

When he’d realized what his afterlife really was, he’d thought it again. He was a monster; not as in a “bad person,” an _actual_ monster. Dangerous, predatory, unable even to live without sucking the vitality out of other human’s veins. He was a devil, and he was trapped with himself for eternity. That, he’d thought, was as literal an interpretation of “hell on Earth” as was possible. He’d thought then that he understood.

 

Now, as he sang in his favorite nook, tucked away with his guitar on the penultimate floor of the Hotel Dumort, he knew that Hell was not pain. It was not fear, nor thirst, nor demons. He knew now that to be damned was to fall--  to be cast out. It was separation. It was the knowledge that his loss and isolation were his own choice. It was guilt. It was sin. It was his own betrayal of those he’d loved.

 

_That's where old devils danced and kissed_

_And made their blood pacts in the ancient myths_

 

Simon can picture in perfect detail Raphael’s expression when he’d declared Simon a traitor. He wishes he couldn’t. He wishes the memory of that look wasn’t so much clearer than all his others, like it was branded on his mind. Like it’ll be there when time has erased every other memory.

 

Maybe one day he won’t remember what Raphael’s laugh sounded like. Or the defiance in his face when Simon had seen the mark the cross around Raphael’s neck burned into his skin. Or that half-repressed smile he’d worn the night Simon made Raphael dance with him. Lily had wolf-whistled from what she clearly judged to be a safe distance, she was lucky Raphael was feeling generous: he’d ignored her, lips turning up just a bit more.

 

Simon’s clan had been his family, and he’d owed them loyalty. He had not given it. If he still remembered his treachery when every other memory had faded away, he’d deserve it.

 

_And running through forest they screamed in chorus_

_While piercing fair maidens' chests with their horns_

 

Raphael stands on the rooftop of the Dumort, hands stiffly at his sides. The sun is safely tucked beneath the horizon, but colors linger in the sky, traces of daylight still in the air-- it’s his favorite time; the most human time.

 

Dusk always evoked a certain longing in Raphael. When he’d first found himself confined to the night with the rest of the dark things, the sunset had been painful. The grief he’d felt at seeing it had been unexpected and overwhelming.

 

It was fitting in a way, death had become his domain, and the dying sun was the only light permitted in his life. The first time he’d watched it set really knowing that he’d never see it rise again, the pain he’d felt had left him breathless. It was like someone had punched a hole through him, leaving his lungs gasping and his chest empty.

 

But time dulls everything, even for the undead. It had been years since the gloaming had brought more than a dull twinge to Raphel. Tonight is different.

 

A single floor separates him and the sound of Simon’s voice. He’s singing, a song that manages to be both playful and melancholy. Raphael can’t help listening, he can’t ignore the soft sound of Simon’s voice anymore than he can ignore the ache in his own chest. As the sun rays recede, the pull Raphael had felt-- the need to be out here, breathing in what light he can-- fades with it. Something else tugs at him, another kind of light calling to him.

 

_And then they lay in the grass 'til the dawn came_

_Sleeping away 'til the dawn came_

_Lay in the grass where now stands the Grand Hotel_

 

The vampires are all stirring now, gravitating towards the big spaces where they’ve danced to this voice before.

 

_The maître d' and a fancy chef_

_Silver's real, the liquor's top shelf_

_Play some tennis, swim in a pool_

_Stroll the garden, shady and cool_

 

Simon’s always reminded Lily of living things, growing things. He’s crept into their hearts in such an unexpected way. He’d had them all wrapped up in his clutches before they’d quite known what they were about, like vines twining around a tree.

 

When he hadn’t chosen them, when he chose the Nephilim, when he chose _her_ , Lily had felt his vinelike fingers, coiled around the clan’s hearts, shredding through them like thread through butter.

 

She’d been angry, then sad, and then… she’d wilted. Simon had brought humanity and energy back into their lives and then he’d taken it away again. Without it, she couldn’t even stay sad. She’d just grown lethargic, sinking further into apathy than she’d ever done.

 

Now his music, his emotion, the barely-there sound of one of his legs vibrating with excess energy, fills the hotel again. Lily feels it rousing her. The song is full of thoughts forlorn and wistful. It reminds Lily how much she misses life. It’s nostalgic and challenging and she isn’t sure she likes it.

 

_You won't care that the devils_

_Won't mind that the devils_

_Won't know that the devils are near_

 

Simon knows that the sun is setting, that the hotel will be waking up soon, and he’s afraid. He’d done what he could to atone for wronging Raphael, he’d found Camille and endangered himself to capture her. When things went south (as they inevitably did) he’d proved just how remorseful he was; just how loyal to Raphael and the clan; just how dedicated to Raphael’s safety. In return, Raphael had told him he was allowed back in the hotel. That was two weeks ago.

 

Yesterday, Simon finally got up the courage to return, but he couldn’t imagine just waltzing in the front doors. Bursting in like a student 15 minutes late to class on the first day, all eyes turning to him to sit in judgement. So he’d snuck in before the sun set and the Dumort rose.

 

He’d sat down to wait for the others to wake, but he’d run out patience, run out of nerve, after only a few moments.

 

The music had been meant to calm him. He was trying to keep his mind off his impending reunion with his fearless leader and the clan. It isn’t working. At all.

 

He wants to see him, them. But he’s scared, and so, so sorry.

 

_Somewhere below the grand hotel_

_There is a tunnel that leads straight to hell_

 

The Dumort used to be a kind of hell for Simon, he thinks idly as his fingers pluck the strings. He thinks it might have been a kind of hell for all of them.

 

_But no one comes up for the souls anymore_

_They come for some comfort and for the dance floor_

_And hiding sharp horns under fedoras_

_Do not disturb signs instead of a chorus_

 

The vampires are standing in the lobby and the stateroom. They’re all listening now, eyeing each other to see who’ll give in first. None of them have ever been able to resist.

 

Finally, Lily offers Elliott her hand. They dance. Others begin dancing in pairs, or small groups, or even alone. It’s nothing like a vampire party. The lights are low, the music is soft and clear, and when they dance it’s slow.

 

Elliott’s hand is almost warm where it holds Lily’s. That’s probably impossible. Lily isn’t sure.

 

As they dance past, Lily notices that sad, ever-silent European couple. They’re holding each other in a way that looks stately and rigid, moving in a traditional, elegant dance. They’re looking into each other’s eyes. In the second that Lily watches them, she can see that they’re communicating. She thinks maybe they’re still in love.

 

_They toss and turn 'til the dawn comes_

_On soft sheets 'til the dawn comes_

_No one sleeps at the grand hotel_

 

Simon lets the music soothe his anxiety as much as it can. Tonight, whatever it holds, whatever welcome he receives from his clan, from Raphael, tonight is going to be pivotal.

 

_Room service, mini-bar_

_Scented soaps, chauffeured cars_

 

The low light of the room takes on an otherworldly glow as the twilight in the window wanes. The bodies continue their unhurried dance.

 

_Stay a day, stay a week_

_Here's the tunnel, take a peek_

 

Raphael’s feet have been itching to follow the sound. He can see the lights of the Stateroom filtering out onto the abandoned sidewalk below where he stands on the edge of the roof. He can see the shadows of his clan, swaying to the sounds of Simon’s guitar.

 

There’s a breeze, but he doesn’t feel it. There’s the scent of strangers on the wind and the sound of the city is all around him, but Raphael can’t sense any of it. He feels only that longing for sunlight, tugging him downwards, urging him on. Into the the stairwell, down, down, along the hall… He moves at speeds only a vampire could, but it takes _too long_. There’s a hole in his chest and a song in the air and he needs to reach it before it’s gone.

 

_Just call up your friends at the front desk_

_Any hour at the front desk_

 

Simon hears footsteps, but can’t make out who they belong to over the sound of the guitar and his own voice. He’s really got to work on his vampy senses. He should have heard whoever it was wake up, let alone get this close to him.

 

For a moment he wonders who’s going to round the corner and find him hiding in the alcove.

 

When it’s Raphael he’s surprised to find himself… unsurprised. And, more remarkably, unafraid.

 

He looks in Raphael’s face, properly for the first time since that horrible day a few long months ago. The features look exactly as he remembers them in that moment, but the expression is totally different. There’s something startling there, something deep and searching. Something that looks like fear, or possibly hope.

 

_Call up your friends at the Grand Hotel_

 

It’s him. Of course, it’s him, Raphael already knew that. But it’s different to know than to see.

 

He’s tucked into a weird shape, trying to fit all his limbs plus a guitar into a small alcolve. The leg his instrument isn’t resting on is bouncing wildly, out of time. Whether the motion is powered by nerves or simply pent up energy, Raphael doesn’t know.

 

Simon looks up, from the guitar as Raphael nears, fingers not pausing, voice not faltering. His eyes meet Raphael’s, and they’re full of the same light they’ve always been. Of course they are. And Simon and Raphael look at one another, both seem to be asking the same question. For a moment, Raphael isn’t sure if they get the same answer.

 

Suddenly, Simon’s face breaks into a wide smile, and it looks like a sunrise. It _feels_ like a sunrise. Raphael can’t help it: He smiles back.

 

_You'll always have friends at the Grand Hotel_

  
  
  


The End.


End file.
